


a half dozen mistakes

by bytheinco_nstantmoon



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bobby | Trevor Wilson Defense Squad, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Platonic Cuddling, Reggie Has Bad Parents (Julie and The Phantoms), Sunset Curve (Julie and The Phantoms), but like in a sympathetic way, i feel like i should apologise?, keeping up my brand babyyyyyyy, mostly just angst tbh, sorry - Freeform, well actually no i hurt him a lot, wow i really do have a brand huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27413341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon
Summary: And the thing is, once you make the same mistake a half-dozen times, it wasn’t really a mistake anymore. It was still dumb. But it was also still so easy, and getting easier, and it was just one bottle, what was so bad about one bottle?-or; Bobby loses his mind a little, but the boys help him get it back.
Relationships: Alex & Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Luke Patterson & Reggie, Bobby Wilson/Having Problems
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	a half dozen mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in deadass thirty minutes do NOT come for me im trying my best

God, but it wasn’t on purpose. It wasn’t. It was a rough night, and a rough day, and a rough week, and he was so  _ tired,  _ and- well, it wasn’t on purpose. It wasn’t even a conscious thought. It was just that his mom was working a night shift, and he was home alone at 11pm, and he had been so tired for so long, but he couldn’t sleep. It was just that he was too unsteady to eat, and there was a Corona in the fridge, and you know. It was so easy. It was just a twist of a cap and bam.

He should have poured it down the sink.

He didn’t.

He had a killer headache the next morning, but he chugged some water and popped an Advil to make do. It was an impulsive mistake, he told himself, and it wasn’t on purpose. He didn’t do it on purpose. He wouldn’t do it again.

But he was so tired. He was  _ so  _ tired, so he got tired of trying, and he made the same mistake again.

And again.

And again.

And the thing is, once you make the same mistake a half-dozen times, it wasn’t really a mistake anymore. It was still dumb. But it was also still so easy, and getting easier, and it was just one bottle, what was so bad about one bottle? What was so bad about taking a drink before bed, if that was what it took to get a full night of rest? What was so bad about a mistake turning into a choice turning into a habit he couldn’t cull? If it was so awful, shouldn’t someone stop him? If it was so awful, shouldn’t he stop himself? It didn’t  _ feel  _ bad. It just felt like a drink before bed, and a little bit of an easier way to get through his own thoughts.

He started feeling ashamed when one drink turned to two. When he started swiping it from the store, instead of the fridge to keep his mom from noticing. When he stopped noticing the bitterness in the taste, and just noticed the silkiness of sleep underneath, it became something shameful. It became something he tried not to think about too hard.

The thing is, once you weren’t thinking too hard, a habit got so much harder to break.

He started feeling sick of himself when two drinks turned to three. When he started losing memories of the evening and remembering only the sleepy silk on his tongue that got him there, and when he started waking up with his stomach churning, and when he started catching every cold every time he stayed up past one. When he stopped thinking and let it take his mind for itself, it became something terrible. It became something that made his stomach turn.

When three drinks turned to four, he woke up outside his own second story window with a twisted ankle, a bruised back, and no recollection of the night before.

That was when he started hating himself.

The thing about hating yourself was that it formed a prison. It snaked up around your mind like a cage, framing it in with the constant reminder. It wasn’t an unending sadness, or a wound, or throbbing maudlin regret; it was a dull ache that stayed steady in the corner of your mind, trickling down your spine to settle in your bones, weaving its slow, toxic trail into your heart. It was a distant discomfort that lasted all day. He wasn’t quite okay with himself. He could never quite be cohesively alright- there was a traitorous little corner of his mind he couldn’t escape, one that jarred him just a little too far. He was just a little too fucked up, now. He didn’t always hate himself. It was just that he never  _ didn’t. _

He limped for a week and a half. He told everyone he tripped down the stairs. The lie tasted bitter in his mouth, and he almost liked it, because nowadays he hardly tasted anything but the dust of nights forgotten and that silky sleep under his tongue. The bruises on his back faded, eventually.

He always remembered, though. Everytime he fell off into that abyss, everytime he dimmed himself into drunkenness, everytime he lost his mind, he still remembered the morning he woke up outside his window. He couldn’t escape it.

That was the thing with hating yourself. It was the kind of thing you never forget.

But it wasn’t on purpose, not at the beginning. This wasn’t what he wanted. He just wanted a night of rest. God, he was just so tired, he was tired down to his soul, and he made a mistake, and he chose to make it again. And he was still so tired, but it hurt to be without it now. He couldn’t stay sober with his thoughts too long. He’d lose his mind even quicker that way.

So he drank, and he hated himself, and he waited for sleep to come.

The thing is, habits don’t abide by strict rules. He started craving it. Started drinking at ten instead of eleven, and nine instead of ten, and now he had gotten around to cracking one open as soon as he got home from school and following it up with whatever else. Losing the night turned into losing the day turned into losing everything.

He started bringing it to school. Little bottles of rose tequila, a water bottle of vodka, going out at lunch for the six pack in his car. He started losing his classes. His grades slipped through his fingers, but he just drank and hated himself and waited for sleep to come. He was too tired to care about a 60 on a Physics test. He was too fucked up for school, anyway.

He started fighting with his mom.

He tried not to think about that.

He woke up outside the window again.

.

.

Well, clearly he enjoyed dooming himself, so it wasn’t exactly surprising. It made sense, in a depressing kind of way that made his stomach cave on itself. He knew it was a terrible idea. But he was tired and it was habit and it was  _ there,  _ so he drank himself to staggering and then went out to the garage.

“You good, man?” Reggie asked, and his stomach flipped.

Well, fuck.

He forced a smile onto his face. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good, I’m all good,” he said, half aware he was babbling. Maybe a little slurred. “Just a little tired. Didn’t sleep well last night.” He hasn’t slept well in a while, really, so maybe it wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t like he would know.

The silkiness under his tongue was making him sick. Or maybe that was the guilt? It weighed in his gut like a stone, because how could he be so  _ stupid?  _ Because Reggie’s dad- that fucking bastard, Bobby can’t fucking stand him- Reggie’s dad was a drinking man. Was a violent one, too. Was loud and fucked up and a terrible drinker, a terrible dad, a fucking- Bobby was terrible, coming out here like this. Coming near Reggie all fucked up like his dad. God, but what was he thinking?

He wasn’t, of course. The thing with habits is that they happen when your thoughts are gone.

Reggie just raised a brow. “Okay, man.”

“You sure you’re good for practice?” Luke cut in. He was squinting in Bobby’s direction warily. “You don’t look too great.”

“I’m fine.” Luke didn’t look convinced. “Luke, I’m  _ fine.” _

Luke put his hands up in surrender. “Alright, bro. Your call.” Bobby rolled his eyes (and instantly regretted it, because he was already unsteady, Jesus  _ fuck-)  _ and went to grab his guitar. And if he stumbled a little bit, well. His shoe was untied.

His hands were shaking as they started practice. His shoulders relaxed though, and his eyes fell shut, strumming the chords off muscle memory. It was a song they’d played a thousand times. One he’d written with Alex last year, actually. It was one of his favorites. Even now, halfway to broken and on the edge of losing his mind, it calmed him. It tasted like silk on his tongue. Sweeter than a drink. Fuck, but why hadn’t he gotten addicted to this instead?

His hands were shaking, though, and his F chord skidded sharply. It skidded into his ears like sandpaper. “Fuck!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay-” Luke started, but he was still shaking, still fumbling at the strings. “Hey. Hey. Hey!” Hands on his shoulders, on his face, and he couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t see, and what was going on? He felt so unsteady. The world was shattering, or he was shattering, or both, or neither, and he couldn’t play this stupid  _ fucking  _ F chord, and his hands were shaking, and Luke was saying something.

God, what was he playing?

“Bobby, are you-” New hands. He shoved them away without thinking, because it was too much, too many, and he was so unsteady, and-

And Reggie was stumbling back away from him with wide eyes. And Alex had bolted up to his feet. And Luke’s hands had dropped away like stones.

And he was sick of it.

And he hated himself.

And he was so unsteady, and he was so, so tired.

Bobby reached out, intending to apologise, but Reggie flinched back, and it seared at his chest like a whip. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, Reg, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, don’t know what I was thinking, Reg, but I’m sorry-” or something like that, because his words were all melting and melding and morphing together into something mumbled and slurred and unsteady. He was so unsteady.

He didn’t mean to crumble, but there he was on the floor, and he curled into himself. His fingers knotted into his hair to tug sharply. Focus. Focus, Bobby. Get your fucked up, hazy head in the game. Just say sorry. You can do that. Just say sorry to Reggie. Just say sorry.

Instead he said, “I feel sick,” and then he felt even sicker, because  _ that wasn’t what he was supposed to say.  _ He was supposed to apologise. He wasn’t supposed to be selfish right now. He did feel sick, though. Sick and shattered on the floor.

A hand rubbed at his back soothingly. “Hey. Hey, there, Bobby, can you look at me?” He shook his head. “Come on, man. It’s just me. It’s just Luke. I’ve got you.” He hated how comforting it was.

“Reggie,” he whispered.

“Reggie?” Luke asked. Bobby nodded. “Reggie’s okay. He’s okay. He got a little scared, but he’s alright now, I promise.” He kept rubbing at Bobby’s back. “He’s okay,” he repeated. “Reg?”

An arm slung around Bobby’s waist, a head pressing into his shoulder, and it was Reggie’s voice. It was Reggie. “I’m okay. Look at me.” He tilted his head up slowly to take him in. He seemed okay. His eyes were shiny. Wet with tears. He’d made him cry. He hadn’t known he could hate himself more.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Reggie said. He squeezed his shoulders tightly. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong?

Well, what was he supposed to say? That he was too tired, too empty, too fucked up and broken and full of dust? That he was a little terrible with decisions in the first place, and now it was so hard to break a habit that maybe made him feel sort of okay? That he didn’t really know if it made him feel okay at all, but it made him feel a little less empty, a little less bleak? That it made him hate himself, but it took the barbs of the hate away? That he didn’t know how to think anymore unless he was losing his mind? What was he supposed to say?

He said, “I’m  _ tired,” _ but he didn’t really, because it got all caught up and jumbled in his tears. When had he started crying?

And there were hands on his shoulders, and Alex was asking something, and Reggie’s arm tightened. He had to blink a few times to process the question. Alex kneeling in front of his crumpled form, squeezing his shoulders. His face was open, earnest, fucking  _ scared,  _ and his voice was low, asking, “Hey, are you drunk?”

And Bobby processed the question and started crying again, because he hadn’t been thinking at all.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t wanna, I didn’t wanna, it wasn’t on purpose, I didn’t mean to-” he devolved off into utter nonsense, choked and slurred against Luke’s shoulder, his whole body shuddering. “I didn’t mean to,” he repeated. “I didn’t mean to.” But what did it matter what he’d meant to do? Intentions come and intentions go, and in the end they all added up to him on the garage floor, crumbling to pieces in front of his friends, crumbling into nothing, because he  _ was  _ nothing, because he was just a habit and a facade and the nothing that was inside. He was just a pitiful pile of excuses. He was just fucked up.

Luke rubbed his back again. “Why?” he whispered. Bobby just cried harder, because how the hell was he supposed to know? How was he supposed to know anything at all? He was nothing, he was nothing at all, he was just echoes and regrets and broken pieces.

How was he supposed to know?

He just crumbled, and he cried, and he hated himself until sleep came.

.

.

When he woke up, they were still on the studio floor. Their instruments had all been put up, he noticed. Reggie and Alex were nestled on either side of him, curled into his shoulders, with Luke draped against Alex’s back. Bobby groaned slightly at the fluorescent lighting. “Fuck,” he whispered.

A hand rubbed at his side. “Fuck,” Reggie agreed. His voice was hoarse. Had he been crying?”

Bobby closed his eyes again. “I’m sorry,” he said. More clearly than before. More earnest. “It wasn’t- I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know.” Reggie’s grip on him tightened. “God, I  _ know,  _ Bobby, I don’t care about that.” Bobby blinked again, staring at him. Reggie reached up to brush his hair back. His fingers felt nice and cool against the flushed skin of Bobby’s face. “I’m worried,” Reggie said, which didn’t make sense. He was worried about Bobby pushing him again?

“I said I didn’t mean to scare you. You don’t have to worry.”

Reggie blinked. “What? What, no, you idiot. I’m worried about you,” he replied. His hand hadn’t moved yet. “You’re not… I mean, you’re not okay. It’s been obvious for a while, but this…”

Bobby shrugged. His eyes fell shut again. “I just wanted a good night’s sleep,” he admitted quietly. The exhaustion surged up out of his bones, fading his voice into a murmur. “I just wanted to stop thinking. And now- now I can’t think. Not even when I want to. But I  _ don’t  _ want to. I don’t wanna do anything. I just…” he let out a shuddering breath. “I just wanna  _ sleep.”  _ His voice cracked pitifully on the last word.

Reggie was silent for a long, long moment. Bobby kept his eyes closed.

“Go to sleep,” Reggie said, finally. His voice was gentler than any angel song. His hand cupped Bobby’s cheek for a moment, a comforting kind of touch. “You can sleep for as long as you want. We’ve got you.” Bobby hummed contently. He could hear Reggie’s tiny smile. “We love you, Bobby. You’re our best friend,” he continued, and it sounded like a promise. “We’re gonna figure this out, I promise. But right now, you just get some sleep.”

So he did, and maybe it was a little more okay, and maybe he hated himself a little less.

**Author's Note:**

> aha i hope you enjoyed ! i love you all ! drop a comment to let me know what you thought and follow me on tumblr @bobbywilsonsupremacy for more of my bullshit


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